Son of a Marine
by arctichamster
Summary: In which House describes what it was like growing up as the son of a committed career Marine. *NOTE: This is NOT a new piece (former title: House's Story which, oddly enough, was never designed to be the permanent title). Minor enhancements and revisions have been made.


**A/N1: Knowing what we know about Gregory House's childhood from canon, along with the casting of R. Lee Ermey (a former Marine himself) as Col. John House (USMC, ret.), got me considering what life was like for House as a child. **_**The Great Santini **_**(1979), starring Robert Duvall, Blythe Danner, and Oscar nominee Michael O'Keefe (Failure to Communicate, S2E10), is an excellent primer into what life might have been like for House as a child and teenager living in that ****environment. I am also a former Marine. With the exceptions of the ice baths, sleeping outside as punishment and having to hold the M1 for hours, I have personally experienced the relentless inspections and boot camp punishments outlined here.**

**A/N2: Canonical references:  
****Daddy's Boy S2E05  
****Son of Coma Guy S3E07  
****One Day, One Room S3E12  
****Human Error S3E24  
****Adverse Events S5E03  
****Birthmarks S5E04  
****Twenty Vicodin S8E01  
****Blowing the Whistle S8E15**

**A/N3: Standard Disclaimer. I have no connection whatsoever to this character other than a deep and abiding fondness and respect for him. I am a firm believer in canon. My unending thanks to David Shore for creating one of the most unique and memorable television characters of our time, and to Hugh Laurie for breathing life into that force of nature known as Gregory House, making him so much more nuanced and human than the one-dimensional pain in the ass he could have been. Thanks and kudos also to Doris Egan for writing Son of a Coma Guy. Some of you will know my great fondness for the **_**buraku**_** story.**

* * *

My dad was a Marine Corps pilot. Everything was very precise with him. Just as in flying, there was no margin for error. My dad was a lot like Robert Duvall's character, Bull Meecham in _The Great Santin_i_, _only Dad was a full Colonel. My mom is a lot like Bull's wife, always keeping life in order with every move. Before Dad went to the Naval Academy, then Officer Candidate School, he had been a Drill Instructor. So getting in people's faces and making their lives miserable came easy to him.

One of my earliest memories was my father telling me that it was dishonorable to interrupt someone while they're reading. Never did understand why, but it is what it is.

On my 5th birthday, Dad came into my room carrying a locker box, a chest that Marine recruits keep under their racks and contains all of their possessions. If it doesn't fit in the locker box it gets tossed. Our father-son time on my birthday was spent with me learning the proper way to fold my clothes and the specific placement of each item in that box, including towels and toiletries. Everything I owned went into that box. His reasoning was that it would make things easier when we'd transfer to a new duty station if Mom didn't have to pack up a room full of stuff. She had enough to worry about, especially since Dad was usually already gone when it came time to move and she had to make all the arrangements with Household Goods, then supervise the movers so that everything arrived in the same condition as it left. Finally she had to ensure that the quarters we were leaving was in the same condition as when we arrived.

I also learned how to make my bed to meet Marine Corps standards that day: 45 degree corners on the sheets and blanket, 4" fold on the top sheet onto the blanket, and tucked underneath the mattress so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. People think that's a figure of speech, but it's not.

From that day on, every Saturday at 0600 (zero six hundred) I had to present myself, fully dressed and standing at attention at the foot of my bed. The bed had to be made to specifications, and Dad would do the quarter test on it without fail. My clothes had to be clean, without holes or wear marks, fit properly, and be presentable, and while I didn't have a high-and-tight Marine Corps haircut it still had to be cut to regulations.

The inspection would begin with him literally inspecting me from head to toe. He had a clipboard with him and would note if there were any flaws in my appearance. Then his attention turned to the bed. He had a ruler he'd use to make sure the angles and folds were exact and would make more notes if it wasn't perfect. Not that Dad needed it. He could spot Irish pennants on my clothes and angles that were off on my bed from across the room.

Finally he would inspect the locker box. For the first month, I was allowed to use a chart that showed the placement of each item. After that, it all had to come from memory.

Dad explained everything to me in great detail that day, and I learned really fast to hate that clipboard and the scratching sound the pen made on the paper. Because if he made too many notes, if I got too many marks against me, I would be punished.

In the beginning it was loss of privileges. If you were 2 minutes late for dinner, you didn't eat. As I got older, the punishments were more severe: Sleeping in the yard no matter what the season, no matter what the weather. Ice baths that would get longer the older I got. And then there were the boot camp punishments: Mountain climbers until it felt like my legs were going to fall off. Endless jumping jacks (in the Corps they're known as 'Side Straddle Hops'). Having to hold an M1 Garand rifle that weighs 10 1/2 pounds at port arms for hours. If I dropped it, I'd get to do an endless cycle of mountain climbers. On days when that would happen, it would be all I could do to crawl to my room where I'd curl up in a ball and escape into my brain. Sometimes, when Dad would get together with his buddies from the Corps and reminisce about "The Good Old Days" when they were Drill Instructors, I would hear stories of herding recruits into a confined space and making them do mountain climbers on top of each other until they dropped. Many sprained and broken fingers came out of these sessions and it was times like that I was never more glad to be alone.

On my 7th birthday a new task was added to the inspection. It was called J.O.B., or 'Junk On Bunk.' It was like the locker box, but done on top of the blanket on my bed. These items were special The t-shirt, socks, underwear, and everything else had to be folded in a very specific fashion and were never to be worn. Like the locker box, I was allowed to use a layout for the first month. After that it was all memory.

I had to memorize the General Orders for Sentries when I was 8. There are 11 of them, and I had to have a copy of the Orders on me at all times. I never knew when Dad would bark at me to recite one of them, and if I was wrong I would be punished.

By the time I was 10, I well and truly hated the man and would do everything in my power to avoid him. When I was 12 I figured out that he wasn't even my biological father and made it very clear to him that I knew. He didn't speak to me for that entire summer. Anything he wanted to say he typed up on the old Smith-Corona in his study and slid under my door.

My saving graces were music, books, and sports, things that allowed me to escape into my brain and release pent up energy. Mom got me started with piano lessons when I was 6. Dad wasn't too thrilled about that. He thought it would make me soft, but Mom stood her ground and insisted that I needed to have a creative outlet. Eventually he folded. She's about the only person in the world to be able to get him to do that even though, as it turns out, she hated him too. When I was 13 I bought my first guitar. I was in 8th grade and used money I'd earned that summer to buy it. I taught myself how to play, and loved the fact that while it may not have fit into the locker box it was portable and didn't have to go with the movers. Somewhere along the way I picked up a harmonica and taught myself how to play that too. It was even more portable than the guitar. I could take it anywhere. It was music in my pocket.

The first thing I would do when we'd get to a new duty station was find out where the library was and make it a point to get there. I'd spend hours wandering the shelves, because you can never have enough books and I only had room for 2 or 3 in the locker box. But in books there was escape. I read and absorbed everything I could get my hands on, but especially loved science books. I gravitated towards physics, and spent endless days pondering the mysteries of space, time, dark matter. There was a time before I went to medical school that I considered getting my PhD in physics because dark matter fascinates me. But when I was 14 Dad was stationed in Japan and everything changed.

I went rock climbing with this kid from school. He fell, got injured, and I had to take him to the hospital. We came in through the wrong entrance and passed this guy in the hall. He was a janitor. My friend came down with an infection and the doctors didn't know what to do. So they brought in the janitor. He was a doctor. And a _buraku_. One of Japan's untouchables. His ancestors had been slaughterers, grave diggers. This guy - he knew that he wasn't accepted by the staff, didn't even try. He didn't dress well, he didn't pretend to be one of them. The people around that place, they didn't think that he had anything they wanted. Except when they needed him. Because he was right. Which meant that nothing else mattered. And they had to listen to him.

The _buraku _intrigued me, and it was then that I decided to switch from physics to medicine. I studied every medical text that was kept in the library. There weren't always a lot of them, but there was always something to learn. I knew I didn't want to spend my days wiping noses and treating crotch rot. I wanted to specialize in something that would challenge my brain. Because if my brain was always engaged with a puzzle, I wouldn't have to think. I wouldn't have to remember.

Sports always came easily to me, but since we were moving every few years it was hard to maintain any continuity. In an effort to fit in I would play whatever sports the local kids were playing - soccer, rugby, cricket, golf, baseball, lacrosse - you name it. I ran a lot too, mostly as a means to escape and to think and to forget. I played lacrosse in high school; it's constant movement, strategy, contact, and a great way to get inside an opponent's head. Had planned to play in college too, but it didn't quite work out that way. Life never does. There was a girl…

FIN


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